


Vacillation

by straightforwardly



Category: Magical Diary (Visual Novels)
Genre: 3 Sentence Ficathon, Alternate Universe - Homestuck-Style Trolls, F/M, Quadrant Vacillation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2020-10-04 01:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20462837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straightforwardly/pseuds/straightforwardly
Summary: She has never known anyone as pitiful as him. Or: the one where everyone is a Homestuck-style troll.





	Vacillation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 [Three Sentence Ficathon](https://rthstewart.dreamwidth.org/139838.html?thread=4915262#cmt4915262), for the following prompt:
>
>> Magical Diary/Homestuck, Mary Sue/Damien, quadrants
> 
>   
It’s been over four years since I last played this game, so I was very much working off of my vague memories for this one. I also ended up going with three sentences per (featured) quadrant rather than three sentences overall. 

**Red**

She has never known anyone as pitiful as him: it’s like a scene straight out of a movie, the way this terrifying-looking highblood looks at her, shy and sweet, and confides to her about the loneliness and prejudice he faces, and their romance only grows from there. It seems as though each time they meet, he shows her new facets of his wretchedness; his heart is as pathetic as his appearance is frightening, and she loves, loves, loves him for it. The more her roommates speak against him, the greater her fervor grows.

**Black**

Hearts nearly turn to spades, that night when he tries to take her soul from her. He tricked her—he _tricked_ her! He played on her feelings of pity like a stringed music-making device; he made a mockery of all that a red romance is, and yet she is still drawn to him—for one brief instance upon awakening, she thinks that this must be what it is to hate with desire.

**Pale**

Except she also can’t stop thinking about that moment when she reached out to him as he stood before her—his eyes aglow, passionate in his violence, draining more of her soul from her body with each passing moment—and how, seconds before Potsdam intervened, she could have sworn that he stopped on his own, pacified by her outstretched hand. 

Their next meeting confirms it: when she speaks to him, she no longer feels hate nor desire, but pity alone: pity, for this pathetic highblood who must use trickery rather than his power to gain what he needs; glorious, affectionate pity for this creature who will both show her his cruelty and refrain from it with a single touch of her hand.

She goes with him when he asks; of course she does, for who will—who _could_—know him or steady him as she does, if she does not?


End file.
